The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.

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Thursday, April 28, 2005

So docile and attentive. Like they reallyCare about how the first settlers planted cornAnd made candles.So fresh in their new, white Reeboks.So patiently waiting for the ride at Disneyworld.So willing to gog and gape at the Falls.

Sheep.

But tourists are pulse signals, kitschy ambassadors,Testaments to peace.

How I’d long to see them flocking to Falujah,Buying souvenir plates from the Hindu Kush,Or bumper stickers with, “ I ♥LOVE♥ Ramallah,” or aT shirt, “My parents went to Groznyy, and allI got was this lousy shirt.”

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Three people stand in a shop in Paris lookingat an old piano. It might have been played byBeethoven. The veneer is sumptuous, thoughblistered where separated from the shapingpieces. Inside, no cast-iron frame, but thick,wooden struts. The woman attempts a scale, butmany of the notes are missing. “It’s like tryingto capture moonlight in a net." The man marvelsat the piano’s age and that it had been madeentirely by hand. The shopowner tells them,"The trees for the wood were most likely plantedin the late sixteenth century. The woodworkingguilds of Germany planted trees so their children’schildren’s children would have the right kind of woodharvested, sometimes, 250 years later. Then it wascured from 10 to 40 years. Even in the nineteenth century,such wood was rare, but now it is a substancethat has gone out of the world we live in."

Nils Peterson taught at San Jose State University for more than 35 years. He has a collection of poems called The Comedy of Desire edited by Robert Bly and published by Blue Sofa Press.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

TODAY, April 24, Armenians all around the world will march for justice. For 90 years, the government of Turkey has denied the crimes it has committed on the Armenians in 1915. The have often used the following statement to justify their denial: “A claim without an owner is not a valid claim.” -SM

“A claim without an owner is not a valid claim,”A dog without an owner is not a valid dog.A god without a son is not a valid god.A liar without America is not a valid liar.A turkey without a valid gobble-gobble is not a turkey.A puppet without a protruding nose is not a Pinocchio.A map without bloody borders is not a valid map.Thus,A country without its mountain it’s not a valid country.

Shahé Mankerian spent his formative years in Beirut, Lebanon. He migrated to Los Angeles in 1979. He received his graduate degree in English from California State University, Los Angeles in 2000. Los Angeles Poetry Festival recognized him as one of the newer voices of 2001. In 2002, he was featured as a guest poet on Inspiration House with Peter Harris on KPFK. 2003 was a busy year for Shahé. He won both Erika Mumford Prize and Daniel Varoujan Award from the New England Poetry Club. Writers at Work selected one of his poems for the Common Prayers project. In the summer of 2004, he was a recipient of a writing grant from the Los Angeles Writer’s Project. Recently, Edifice Wrecked nominated Mankerian’s poem “She’s Hiding My Keys” for the 2004 Pushcart Prize.

Friday, April 22, 2005

A red, white and black mulligan in my coffee turns into a hairy mutt in my gut mixing with regurgitations from a rancid politico Neocon Presidential fund raising dinner when the waitress approaches and asks, *Want another?*

Though brain sizzles like a frying egg and my pulse races like mad, I say, *Yes, and yes I will Yes.*

How could I have been so stupid? I feel inside like I've swallowed a mystery stew along with the greasy spoon carrying me along for a ride on the back of Big Brother to a place of government cover-ups where I enter a world of bogus TV. Commercials ruled by Queen Ptomaine and her husband the Lord of Misrule.

Here, everything important isn't important anymore. I discover who I’m not where past, present and future tangle, I hurl, rotting from inside out, turning into a bizarre hallucinatory machine.

I can only talk about what I don't know. Browse whole libraries of missing books. Back from Byzantium, a mechanical bird mutters, *Oh, to be human and not made of springs. Quackie quack baby. Ouch! Whoosh!*

I’m on a retinal scan planet under the influence of a raging hormonally unbalanced goddess bitch where children of greed don shadowy smiles to go with their stock portfolio fangs while twenty five German poets speak all at once in Geek. Still born gestures of compassion are laid out in coffins. A statue of Hitler hatches an egg. Twelve apostles take turns pulling out the hair of Christ.

I feel like I’m going to Gitmo. I'd strangle myself if I could. My throat demands lungfulls of air, so full it’s shouting: Fire! Avalanche! Despair!

Chief Rumsfeld and the Cheney Boys micro-waved in aspartame turn into nuclear warriors unfolding tasar wings as they whisper in my ear that every commander looks for an edge and the deconstruction of perception takes balls of lead. I find myself standing before Queen Ptomaine who takes the shape of my uncle Sam’s wife and I'm naked in the poverty of her sight.

She says *Hey, I’ve been inside you thinking about you for hours. You know my husband and I are infatuated with you. We’re falling in love… I no longer know what to do! If you’re also unhappy, let’s chat and see. We would trade anything for a night with you. What are you doing later on tonight? Why don’t you join the National Guard?*

honks & silhouettes of armsraised inside cars headed homefingers extended in Vsor single birds or thumbs-down, fistswho could tell? traffic passingmostly without much interestheaded home

under the Monday August sun coming downhitting us over the headuntil the squad car stoppedofficer in blinding black uniformtelling us to disperse & desistwith our signs blue red & whitetrespassing the right

-of-way. Our right.

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler and is also involved in conservation projects for cavity-nesting birds.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

In an article in today's New York Times, PEN American Center President Salman Rushdie writes of how "in our dumbed-down, homogenized, frightened culture, under the thumbs of leaders who seem to think of themselves as God's anointed and of power as their divine right . . . it is harder for writers to claim to be, as Shelley said, 'the unacknowledged legislators of the world,' to believe in the literary art as the proper counterweight to power, and to see literature as a lofty, transnational, transcultural force that could, in Bellow's great formulation, ''open the universe a little more."

of rich and poorof less and moreof beauty and goreof ignorance and loreof despise and adoreof ill and cure

all art takes sides

whom do you create for?

(so said Baraka via Mao and DuBois)

cant vacillate on the sidelines of life

while the world is backed up against the Wall Streetfacing the firing squads of imperial goonsand criticswho deify dollarswho reify the status quowith their front paged lies

who don’t know povertyexcept as an entry in Webster’s dictionary

but we who toil in the defecation of dictatorsfertilize an existence from their wasteto indict and defythose who would have us die

but with each utteranceeach manifestationof our minds

we define for all time

what we see, what we know and we wish to be

the will to free or enslave

if we are conscious or depraved

is carved in the bone of our art

and we are not savedby itwhether sold or sought

what matters in the endis the quality of our questfor beauty and truth

all the restis worth no more or lessthan the bloodthan courses through our veins

Act II

Purlie Victoriousour whole lives are but satiresthe enslaved mocking the massacrackin up under the tracks of tearsthat trek down our brown faceswe know more than we let on

sometimessometimes

even to ourselves

Act III

and here comes another long-distance runner

race man

carrying the baton passed on by Robesonhe bequeathed to you his vision and voiceand there you stoodsmooth chocolate baritonelike a Mingus bass line

(from “II B.S.”)

ba doom doom doom doom

da da doimp doimp doimp

da da doom doom doomda da doom doom doom

doom dippa doom dippada da da doom da da doooooommmmm

doimp!

a smooth bluesyGeorgia cotton drawlspoke in the cadence of dignitya diction of defianceto hear you was to hear our historycalling out loud to a future yet to beto beto beto beto betrue to what we know is soa steady rhythm of words laced with longing

you constructed verse like a scientistfinding the appropriate weight or measureyou treasured words and the meanings they held

but your most precious gemwas the Ruby you wore around your hearta courtship of commitmentyour marriage was one life-long kissthe bliss of living on the pulse of purposeto struggleto fightagainst those that would deny us our love

serenaded by Marian Anderson’s contraltocracking the glass ceiling of whitenesswith the siren of her sincerity

actor with a worker’s heartand handscarrying our demands to governorswho blocked the doorway to our destiny

you eulogizedboth King and the man you calledour Black shining princeyour words covered them like burnt incensea holy offeringsacred incantationsthat can resurrect the deadstill

your shoes cannot be filledthe souls of your feet88 years thickdouble infinityeternity times two

who will make us live again?

who can speak words whose truths wont choke them before they leave their mouths?

who can utter a vision then walk it without contradiction?

who can say with you that

"The profoundest commitment possible to a black creator in this country today--beyond all creeds, crafts, classes and ideologies whatsoever—is to bring before his [or her] people the scent of freedom."

Ewuare Osayande (www.osayande.org) is a poet, political activist and author of several books including Black Anti-Ballistic Missives: Resisting War/Resisting Racism. His next book of poems entitled Blood Luxury will be published by Africa World Press in 2005. Currently, Osayande resides in Philly, PA where he is the facilitator of P.O.W.E.R.: People Organized Working to Eradicate Racism.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

I'll do time if I stand in line to protest this democracy. Make signs, march in time to a beat of underground movements ready to pounce on a mis-said word, action, deed. Screaming freedom, smelling teargas, sitting in jail because we forgot, thought a democracy meant equal rights, a chance not life in a jail cell for peaceful protest for no reason but being there. This state of policy turning us into a police state.

He says: We need to track terrorists.He says: We need to protect our citizens.He says: We need to defend our liberty.

In a church, in a town, in the middle of wide open places I check in men, in women, in families. Faces clouded, fleeing from lives unseen within our borders. Our cocoon wrapping is what they search for, a new beginning, a new life, as men with federal badges search the papers, search the files, search their lives because of their foreignness, their differences, their threat. For me it’s horror, disgust at the filtering, an idea of being patriotic but to those families, to them it’s like they’re still home.

He says: We have reached a time for hope.He says: We are confident in the futureHe says: Our country is the greatest nation on earth.

I’m surrounded by suburbia. A perfect suburbia until the plant shuts down, files out, abandons us. All the windows in my neighbourhood turn to broken teeth. A lit street fades to a few fireflies. Friends move out, move on, sink in while

He says: I’ll work to build a nation of justiceHe says: I’ll work to build a nation of opportunity.He says: The American dream is alive.

My friends, father, brothers, cousins, sisters, mothers, sons, march as cannon fodder for single minded walking time bombs, not minding what faces as long as they turn faceless. No one knows why they are there, a generation of people who just want to come home.

He says: We have a calling from beyond the starsHe says: The cause must be just, the goal must be clear, and the victory - overwhelming.He says: We need to stand for freedom

Standing in the Shadow of love, we wave our flag, pledge allegiance, erect towers, monuments, remembrance of people missing, maimed slaughtered. We wear pins, t-shirts, badges our hearts on our sleeve, we wait by the TV, radio, polling station to make a difference, make our choice, forget the heat of the sun as we stand in endless shadow.

And he says: Do you? Do you? Do you love this country as much as I do?

Heather Taylor studied music, acting and writing in western Canada where she first began performing with Mirror Theatre, a group that co-created and toured social theatre pieces for youth. After working on over 30 film and theatre productions both onstage and off, Heather began performing her own solo work in Vancouver and co-produced the multimedia showcase Skidrow Theatre with Silent Productions. Her writing has led her to claim a first place poetry prize with Speak Out and a top-ten position in the Praxis Screenwriting Competition with her full-length screenplay "Two Fists." In January 2002, Heather pulled up stakes and moved to London, England. Since arriving in the UK, she has been a featured performer at Borders, Poetry Café with New Blood, Ladyfest Amsterdam, and at the Spitz with Writers on the Storm. She has also performed at Brave New Word, Backroom Vodka Bar, Backstage Lounge, Aromapoetry and Walking the Dog. Recently, Heather's work has been published in X-Magazine, Wolf and Unpublished as well as various college and youth papers. When not working on her writing, Heather acts as a co-editor for the Veg Out section of youthone.com and has most recently been working as an intern for Sable Literary Magazine.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

The palm trees line the sky like anti-aircraft bursts above the graffiti bricks and the chain link fences and the cars thumping war thumps, above the spinning red and blue lights of the patrol cars that have cordoned off the block,

and the sweat-stained uniforms of the policemen, five of them or so, standing beside the ragged shot body of a homeless man, and the German tourists who told them they thought he was a bag of garbage.

Someone had tried to set the man’s leg on fire and a policeman laughs as he pokes at it.I think that’s the guy from Hollywood, the sergeant says.I busted him last month for drunk and disorderly.

An Uzi fwaps in the distance.

A helicopter turns above the flak and the lights and spins excitedly, like a buzzard smelling carrion and at the edge of the man’s coat, the embers are still warm.

His dead hand is raised to shake like a true gentleman, a bottle of Windex and an oddly spotless rag are half hidden beneath him.

Yeah, the sergeant says, wiping his mouth, definitely that guy from Hollywood, the windshield washer. Who cares? someone says.

Then the wind changes and they turn from the horror, one of the officers puts a handkerchief over his mouth, the helicopter spins madly, and the sergeant whispers a eulogy above the dead monster: It seems like everyone out here wants to kill you.

Scott Odom is a writer and teacher living in Los Angeles. His fiction and poetry have appeared in The New York Quarterly, The New York Magazine of the Arts, Prairie Poetry, and other mags and zines throughout the country. A novel he has written called 95 South will appear in December.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Linear perception of the Balkanized has Americanized us:Let us believe that forward motion is manifest.We don’t see the elliptical nature of things,Circles turning over and under, separate circlesSpinning concurrently, orbiting, rotating,Like the universe or seasons or crops in the fields,Or like the clouds of sand—Billowing, filling, rolling over themselves, sweepingIn all directions on all planes—Which will soon envelop our most tender buds,Work as burial mounds for the other hemisphere’sMost cherished.

Ken McManus has published poems most recently in Warpland (Chicago State University), Coloring Book (Rattlecat Press) and Word Is Bond (Unblind Communications). He lives with his family in Connecticut.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

On the day the pope diedno one knew that he'd been dead since before 911no one told youno one paid enough attention to push him overobviously not crusaderspraying to jesuswhile bombing mosquesthey say he was a man of peaceadmonished by St. Lauryn Hillfor the sins of pedophile priestgas prices rising like the flamesof souls dying for oiland the lies about thoseweapons of mass destructionyet to be found-Tsunami's ragelike the tears of the planetwounded and ravagedof a raped ecologyas water becomes the next commodityIt wasn't on the Disney Channelso don't look on Fox 5or Hot 97where misled hip hopperspimp coca colaand labor leaders disappear from Columbiawhere the peso is worth even less than a dollarDid the evangelicals tell u in church on sundaythat social security has been high jacked by gangsta'sthe christians that lied and stole 2 elections

on the day the pope diedthe most impoverished people of the landwho are mostly Black, Beige and Brownstill genuflect to a white manheads bowedkneeling on the groundnot realizing they've beenhoodwinked into thinking that they've sinnedgiving their hard earned cashto one of the richest men on earthwhile the kingdom of heaven is within

so on the day the pope diedthe truly faithful cried and gave praise to Mary-the Black Madonnaotherwise known as Isis,marched in the street bearing death symbols-turned their backs to the vaticanfor not excommunicating Hitleropened their closetsand burned sage to exorcise demonsset fire to democracy disguised as witchesfanned the coalswhile channeling phoenix

on the day the pope diedel Salvadoran martyrswere still not vindicatedArchbishop Romeroturned in his graveas the death of Sister Dorothy Stangof Brazil is being investigatedand the conspiracy of murder continuesfor peasants protecting the rainforestangels of justice guardbrave priests like Reverends Leclercand Sandovalas they preach the theology of liberationin a world that is still evil and hostile

on the day the pope diedit seemed as if no one had been listeningas millions of oppressed nationalitiesleft the earth from man made dis-easeswhile coat hangers return for those seeking abortionstill Mumia Abu Jamal sits on death rowand our children suffer death from MacDonald'strying to pay student loans w/salaries from StarBucksdreaming of a making a living on Def Jamcombing the country doingopen mics and poetry slamstil realizing the dream's turned into a nightmareas Def Jam Poets line up for Welfare

on the day the pope diedwe pray for a new regimethat truly projects a "culture of life"where the strong will truly protect the weakas bells ring in the vaticanvibrations striving to save the planetfor true liberation of the human spirit

Ngoma is a performance post, multi-instrumentalist and paradigm shifter based in Harlem, NY, who for over 30 years has used culture as a tool to raise socio-political, and spiritual consciousness. For continued news and updates visit his site Ngomazworld at http://www.ngomazworld.com/Ngoma_ParadigmShifter26E.html by clicking on the following . . .

Monday, April 04, 2005

I come from a city where the wells are dry,and the walls divide the sliver moonfrom the sapphire star.

I come from a land where women,barren by choice,refuse to feed the children to the war.

The fish no longer swim near the cliffs,and fishermen eat carcass for breakfast.

The bang of the backgammon silencesthe streetwalkers permanently;the click of their heels restagainst the fallen cedars of Solomon.

The donkey strikes the tendonattached to the socket of the hip.Our common thread is the flesh-eating fly,and the bullet that does not discriminate

the children of Jacob and Esau—locked in the womb of the countryside,separated by the burning stew.

The sun rises and setsin this land of sour milk and wild honey.

Where are you going?“I’m running away from my mistress…”

Where are you going?“I’m running away.”

Where are you going?“I’m running.”

Shahé Mankerian spent his formative years in Beirut, Lebanon. He migrated to Los Angeles in 1979. He received his graduate degree in English from California State University, Los Angeles in 2000. Los Angeles Poetry Festival recognized him as one of the newer voices of 2001. In 2002, he was featured as a guest poet on Inspiration House with Peter Harris on KPFK. 2003 was a busy year for Shahé. He won both Erika Mumford Prize and Daniel Varoujan Award from the New England Poetry Club. Writers at Work selected one of his poems for the Common Prayers project. In the summer of 2004, he was a recipient of a writing grant from the Los Angeles Writer’s Project. Recently, Edifice Wrecked nominated Mankerian’s poem “She’s Hiding My Keys” for the 2004 Pushcart Prize.

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